


Quid Pro Quo

by lonelywalker



Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Gay Relationship, Character of Color, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Revenge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen's roommate has just screwed Owen's boyfriend's daughter in Owen's bed. Owen is not happy. Fortunately, Guert is around to help even the score.</p><p>Spoilers up to and including chapter 56.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid Pro Quo

The text message came when he was on page 366 of an interminable budget report. Affenlight had been barely paying attention as it was, his mind on Pella, and when he eased the phone out of his pocket to check the sender – Owen – he was positive nothing the report said from then on, up to and including references to an alien invasion, would make any impact at all.

Ever since yesterday morning, when he’d woken up to lazy sex and kisses with Owen and felt truly, blissfully happy for one of the few times in his life, everything had gone to hell. Henry Skrimshander had walked off the field, the Harpooners had lost the game and, worst of all, Pella had neither called nor come home. He’d lain awake most of the night, hoping to hear her footsteps on the stairs, the door creaking open. An argument would have been nice. He knew how to have those. Affenlight had longed for Owen too, almost as much as he wanted Pella to be there, but Owen was no doubt busy with the team or at the very least busy sleeping, and calling him had seemed like the height of unwarranted neediness.

So it was Sunday, and he had spent much of the day at his desk as if it were a workday, trying to dupe himself into thinking that he was in fact working. Pella still hadn’t called. But now at least he had a text:

_Please come to my room at your earliest convenience. O._

It seemed a strange sort of request, particularly as Owen lived all of fifty feet away and could have easily strolled over if he’d wanted to chat, but texting back to interrogate him didn’t appear to be a valid option.

Affenlight stood up and smoothed down his shirt, closing the report. It occurred to him that he should wait at least half an hour, to give the impression that he genuinely did have better things to do than jump at Owen’s say-so. But it was Sunday evening and, without Pella, he had no good excuses. Neither did he really want any.

He picked up a stack of books from the corner of his desk – environmental tomes Owen had loaned him weeks ago – and walked briskly out, locking the door to the empty Scull Hall behind him as he went. He’d learned long ago that you could go anywhere at all on a university campus without brooking questions, if only you carried books and walked at a reasonable speed.

This time there were students on the stairs of Phumber, so he smiled at them and cheerfully said hello, and they shuffled off, more embarrassed for themselves than wondering what the college president could possibly be doing there. On the top landing, he knocked lightly at the door of 405. It opened almost instantly.

Affenlight held up the stack. “I came to return your books,” he said, as if anyone were listening.

Owen, in his usual sweatpants and Westish t-shirt, smiled, although there seemed to be something lacking in his usual composure. “How kind. Would you care for some tea? I have a few points I’d like to discuss with you.”

“That would be lovely.”

Inside the room, Affenlight set the books carefully down on the neater of the two desks while Owen locked the door. Henry Skrimshander didn’t seem to be home and, oddly, the sheets were missing from Owen’s bed. He would have asked, but Owen’s palm was already turning his head into a kiss with the sort of heat and urgency he’d been longing for ever since the motel. And then Owen gently pushed him onto Henry’s bed.

“O…” He was insane, he realized, as he broke off the kiss and held up a hand of restraint. He’d spent months wanting Owen like this, had spent most of Friday night and Saturday morning _having_ Owen like this. But he was still subject to basic privacy concerns. “Anyone could walk in.”

Owen’s mouth twisted in something like irritation. “The door’s locked.”

“Henry could walk in.”

“Henry,” Owen said, slipping off his t-shirt, “is doing laundry. He is under strict orders not to return until said laundry is washed, dried, and folded to my precise specifications. He will, therefore, be gone for several hours.”

Affenlight loved to just lie there and look at him, his penis already thickening at the vaguest thought of what they might do together, naked skin pressed to naked skin. And yet… “What happened to your bed?”

“What happened to it?” He’d never seen Owen this tense, this potentially _emotional_. Even when they’d been on the verge of breaking up on Friday, Owen had been the calm one. “Have you spoken to Pella?”

“Pella?” Affenlight pushed himself up on his elbows. “No, is she all right?”

“She was here a little while ago. She seemed fine.” Owen eased out of his sweatpants and boxers. “Take off your clothes. You have too many buttons.”

Affenlight sat back against the wall and obediently began to unbutton his shirt, his gaze lingering on Owen’s crotch despite his mind struggling to reconcile various potentially perturbing facts. “What does Pella have to do with your bed?” The obvious answer was also an impossible one. Another question occurred to him: “And why is Henry doing your laundry?”

Oh. Then it all became clear.

Owen reached forward to jerk open his belt. “Henry appears to have seen fit to screw my boyfriend’s daughter in my bed. Or, alternatively, my boyfriend’s daughter decided to screw my roommate in my bed. In any case, my sheets are wildly insanitary and I find myself needing to work off some immense aggravation.”

If Owen’s main concern seemed to be hygiene-related, Affenlight was caught up with why on earth Pella would have been sleeping with Henry Skrimshander. Or, at least, he would’ve been, but for: “I’m your boyfriend?”

At last, a genuine smile crossed Owen’s face. “I know we’re not Facebook official, but we did finally have a real date. I think it counts.”

“Okay,” Affenlight said, a little dazed. For the first time in his life, he not only _was_ a boyfriend, he _had_ a boyfriend… a boyfriend who had taken over unbuttoning his shirt and was yanking down his pants. Oh god. He was going to be naked in a dorm room for the first time since about 1971. 

“Did Pella seem… all right?” he asked. It might not be suitable sex talk, but there was no way he was going to relax with his daughter still on the loose, potentially mad at him, and apparently working her way through the baseball team.

Owen’s palm was now stroking along the very obvious outline Affenlight’s erection made in his briefs. “Mm, she seemed upset, which is understandable, as Mike and I walked in on them. But it’s just soap opera relationship drama, Guert. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Affenlight said, “for spoiling the moment. I just worry.”

Owen’s fingernails lightly scratched along his inner thigh. “I know. Just relax… You’ll feel better when I’m inside you.”

Affenlight swallowed, and then swallowed harder as Owen leaned in, the heat of his breath on Affenlight’s skin as he peeled down the briefs. But just as Owen’s lips were barely touching the tip of his penis, his brow furrowed. “By the way, did you mention anything about us to Pella?”

“No, of course not.” Affenlight’s hand caressed Owen’s head, short hairs spiking his palm. “I mean, I should. I will, eventually. I just haven’t yet… Why do you ask?”

Owen shook his head slightly as if dismissing even the thought. “She said something… I thought perhaps you’d told her. But never mind.”

There was something in that statement that needed to be examined, Affenlight thought, but later. Later when conversation no longer meant an unbearable delay from seeing himself in Owen’s mouth and feeling that glorious wet warmth of tongue and cheeks. 

They rearranged themselves lengthwise on Henry’s bed, Owen between Affenlight’s bent knees. Affenlight would have hugely preferred the silken sheets of Owen’s bed, as well as the ability to just close his eyes and lose himself in that garlicky, herbal Owen-scent, but this, all things considered, was just as good.

On Friday night he’d been almost unbearably anxious for the entire evening: firstly about whether he could show Owen that he was worthy of being loved, even if it meant a date in a basement in the middle of nowhere, secondly about whether anyone might recognize them, and thirdly – when he remembered he was supposed to be having dinner in an entirely different location – whether he was, in fact, the worst father in the world. But once he’d paid for the motel room and locked the door and switched off his phone, Owen had kissed him softly, cool hands cupping his face, and said: “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Owen’s quiet calmness occasionally meant Affenlight forgot that he wasn’t shy or insecure in the way he himself had been as a student. It had been a relief to simply abdicate responsibility and let Owen carefully strip away his clothes. And if Owen had been disappointed in any way by his pale, unfit, sixty-year-old body, he hadn’t let it show as his tongue flicked over Affenlight’s nipples, and he chuckled at the discovery of the sperm whale tattoo. 

Lying there on the motel room bed, Affenlight had dimly thought to himself that he was supposed to be horrified, as a heterosexual male, by the idea of being penetrated. It was emasculating and taboo and, more to the point, likely to hurt unbearably. But then, he quite clearly _wasn’t_ heterosexual, at least not exclusively, and he had more than enough alcohol in his system to be entirely relaxed about the other points. More than that, though, he trusted Owen.

Now, in Henry’s bed, Affenlight hadn’t had a single drink. He hadn’t even had a cigarette since around noon, had been far too distracted to think about smoking. But the first time had been surprisingly pleasant, and Owen was still Owen, albeit an Owen with slightly less virtuous motives. 

“I love seeing you worked up,” he said while Owen slathered his fingers in lubricant from an interestingly-shaped plastic bottle. He loved seeing Owen aroused as well, watching and feeling him get hard all because of Affenlight. And, when Owen took him back into his mouth, simultaneously sliding one slick finger inside him, he loved that too. There was something about feeling Owen inside him that went beyond the sometimes strange, sometimes intensely pleasurable physical sensations. It was something he’d never shared with anyone else, barring a few unpleasant examinations carried out by unfeeling doctors.

Owen apparently loved to see him worked up just as much, and it was only after minutes of gasped breaths and moans and murmured appreciation that Affenlight wondered just how thick these walls could possibly be. Yes, it was an old building, built back when they intended things to last, but they – whoever _they_ had been – probably hadn’t anticipated the college president needing some privacy while he was being blown and finger-fucked by a student.

“Oh god,” he found himself saying in any case as Owen worked in another finger, stroking him from the inside, sparking off nerves that seemed to dim his vision and made him shiver with the sheer pleasure of it. 

It occurred to him, when Owen finally raised his head and gave him a second to collect his thoughts, that he’d had sex in this very building forty years ago and no one had complained. On the other hand, that had probably been because everyone else had been having sex as well. Which, if it had been true then, was probably also true now, albeit with the general addition of condoms like the one Owen was presently rolling on. Sometimes Affenlight forgot that Owen’s contemporaries were far more driven by hormones and beer than Owen was.

“I think I like this revenge fuck business,” he said, a little dreamily, watching Owen and thinking of the impossibly muscular, hugely-endowed man he’d once seen on Owen’s laptop. How could anyone possibly choose that sort of man over Owen’s soft, slender intensity?

Owen pressed into him with an aching slowness that was probably necessary, but endlessly frustrating all the same. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

Affenlight laughed. “It’s good. You feel _huge_.”

“You know exactly how big I am.”

“Yes. Not exactly small.”

In this position, the tendons in his thighs probably hurt more than his ass, but at least this way they could kiss and Affenlight could run his hands all the way down Owen’s long, smooth back, lingering there so he could feel that very un-Owen-like snap-thrust of his hips. Curious, he felt down between their bodies, to where Owen was stretching him open, filling him up. His erection pulsed hot at the very thought.

“Of course,” Owen said, conversationally, “I’m very happy to make myself available to you for stress relief purposes as well.”

“I wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

Owen started to say something in reply, but it was around that moment that the physical sensations finally seemed to get to him, and he buried his face in the hollow of Affenlight’s shoulder instead, his breaths hot and rapid. “Oh god, Guert… _Fuck_ you’re so good.”

If all the emotion Affenlight ever got out of Owen was in the few seconds before orgasm, he would take it: the cursing and the breathless way he said Affenlight’s name and everything else. And then Owen was coming, jerking into him like he no longer cared whether it might hurt. Which was just fine, because Affenlight was far, far beyond caring as well.

Once Owen had ridden out his climax, he kissed Affenlight on the lips again and moved down, taking him back into his mouth. Age be damned, it didn’t take Affenlight long at all to finish, and then Owen was simply lying on top of him, hot and deceptively heavy. Affenlight really didn’t mind. 

“I love you,” he said, kissing Owen’s forehead and reaching to pull Henry’s comforter up over them both. Owen wasn’t going to say it in reply, it was far too soon for that, but that didn’t mean he was going to check his own feelings. They’d overflow even if he tried.

“Mm.” Owen stirred maybe ten minutes later, just as Affenlight was trying to talk himself out of closing his eyes and drifting off. “I wish you could stay.”

“Me too.”

“We won today,” Owen said, and it took Affenlight a moment to even realize what he was referring to. “Both games. They had to invoke the mercy rule in the second.”

“Amazing.” Affenlight let his hands wander over Owen’s body, stroking, massaging, trying to commit every inch to memory. “And without Henry?”

“Izzy’s talented. The only problem is we don’t have the depth of players some of these other teams do. In a way it’s good I was out for a month. I’m not carrying any injuries.”

Even the thought of any activity injuring Owen was painful. And, of course, if he were to land in the hospital again Affenlight wouldn’t be the one they called. “I’m glad you’re not on the football team. I spent plenty of time seeing doctors when I was quarterback.” He’d broken ribs in high school, sprained and bruised just about everything else over the years. Three of his fingers still weren’t perfectly straight.

“Guert, there was never any danger of me being on the football team.” Owen sighed and began to absently stroke one of Affenlight’s nipples, teasing it to hardness. “Perhaps you’ll come and see us play… I could sneak into your hotel room in some far-off city. We could spend a couple of days together with the right excuse, just making love and ordering room service.”

Something like that would be tricky, but it was _possible_ , and certainly a nice thought with which to preoccupy himself on lonely nights. “I’d like that,” Affenlight said. “Although I wish you didn’t have to sneak anywhere.”

Owen kissed the nipple and sat up, stretching. “Well, it’s not forever,” he said, and Affenlight was about to ask him what he meant when he started picking up clothes from the floor and shaking out the creases. “You can take a shower if you like. Or I could really make some tea?”

Staying was tempting, and they could actually sit down like serious people and discuss the budgetary issues, but Affenlight’s mind was drifting to Pella once more. “I should get back. Pella might be home, or she might call my office phone…”

“Okay,” Owen said. In a way it would have been nice for him to pout and complain about Affenlight not spending enough time with him. But Owen probably had his own schoolwork and reading and, indeed, sleeping to catch up on. 

Owen flipped a switch on his stereo while Affenlight was getting dressed, and the room filled with faintly doleful-sounding electronica. Mood music for robots. Maybe he should ask Pella what the youth of today was listening to. If Owen was going to make the effort to learn about opera, he could probably stand a little MTV. Or avant-garde European dance music, if absolutely necessary. 

“This might interest you,” Owen said, handing him a journal while he was rebuttoning his shirt. “I’ve tagged the relevant articles. Feel free to write on it if need be, you’ll see my notes in the margins.”

“Thanks.”

Owen looked him over and reached to carefully rearrange and pat down his hair. “There. You don’t look _much_ like you’ve just been fucked raw.”

“Fortunately most kids on this campus don’t think anyone over the age of thirty ever has sex. Let alone really, really good sex.” Affenlight kissed him with a smile. “If you see Pella again, can you ask her to call me?”

“Of course.”

They stood for a moment, side by side, and quietly considered the tousled, sweaty, semen-spattered, lubricant-smeared mess that was the current state of Henry’s bed. 

“Feel better?” Affenlight asked.

Owen nodded. “Much.”


End file.
